


Members Only

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [211]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adolescent Folly, Cousins, Fluff, Gen, Humor, New York City, Victorian Fads, for once?? a nice fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23480419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Everyone knows the Finwean descendants are clannish. Sometimes they have a good time with it.
Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [211]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 23
Kudos: 29





	1. Egyptomania

**Author's Note:**

> Late-night co-author groupchats can inspire anything.

Fingon wouldn’t agree to an unwrapping party.

“I wouldn’t either!” Maglor said, aggrieved. “It’s ghoulish, and in poor taste.”

“No one said anything about attending,” Maedhros soothed. “Except perhaps, Finrod. Care to defend yourself, cousin?”

“It _is_ rather disrespectful to the dead,” Finrod said, sighing. “I…I might go _once_ , out of curiosity.”

Fingon frowned. Maglor turned on his heel and stalked towards the windows.

“There are only a few mummies that have come to America at all,” Finrod protested. “For people who claim to have an interest in history, I would think you lot—”

Maedhros called order by drumming his fist on the edge of the billiard table. “This is what Grandfather would call an _ethical dilemma_ ,” he said gently, with a warning glance at Maglor. Maglor had been on the point of taking out his smelling salts, which were already a point of some contention among the recently formed Historical Society. “I have, if you will hear it, a solution.”

“What?” cried a chorus of voices.

Maedhros grinned devilishly. “We unwrap _ourselves_.”

“I _can’t_ come out like this,” Fingon said, from behind the cheap rattan screen. Maglor huffed impatiently, though he felt a little guilt—he _had_ stolen all the most voluminous garments for himself.

Guilt didn’t quite rise to sympathy, however. “It’s a quarter-hour of your life, Fingon.”

Fingon’s face reared up, startling because of the black smudge under one eye. “They say daguerreotypes are forever.”

“So they do,” drawled Maedhros, and Maglor gaped.

His brother was not known for subtlety, nor, if Maglor permitted himself to be honest, _modesty_.

It was apparent that Maedhros had not resented Maglor for hoarding the costume-linen.

In short, he looked scandalous.

Maglor took it all in: The sandals laced half to the knee, the unevenly pleated _shenti_ made graceful when slung low over beveled hipbones…and Maedhros, damn him, had not troubled with so much as another stitch! He had turned to gold instead—gold armbands spanning his biceps, a weighted, gem-studded collar dipping down over his breast, rings on every finger, and a serpent circlet on his brow.

None of it was real gold, of course, save for the freckles on his shoulders and forearms. The cheap props were faulty brass, but that did not matter against alabaster skin, tumbling sun-god hair, and features rimmed in kohl. Maedhros had a superior drawing hand. He had lined his eyes with unbroken strokes, drawing the tail almost to his temples.

 _My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings_ , Maglor’s poet-mind chanted desperately.

Maedhros raised on hand in salute, and solemnly said aloud (though his eyes twinkled):

_“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”_

Maglor sputtered. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?”

“Don’t be sour, _cano_. Is that a lyre you have there?”

“It’s a poor showing of one. I’ve tried to tinker with it.”

“Maitimo,” squawked Fingon. “I _can’t_ come out. Maglor took all of the clothes.”

“I left him enough to cover himself,” Maglor grumbled.

“I’ll give you a bracelet,” Maedhros offered helpfully.

Finrod, who had been dressing with Maedhros—there were two narrow rooms with screens, alongside the main photography chamber—came in just then.

He was wearing a wig three times the size of his head.

“Now _there_ is a pharaoh if ever I saw one,” Maedhros said, applauding so that all the brass hanging off him rattled. “And not a mean attempt at the kohl! Fingon, darling, do come out. I’ll draw on your eyes. Maglor, can’t you spare a single shawl?”

“A musician shouldn’t be _naked_.”

“No,” Maedhros agreed. “Save that for the gods.”


	2. The H.R. Hershberger Experiment

“Athair,” said Maedhros at supper, “Have you ever…forged a sword?”

Six pair of ears pricked up to hear the answer. Maedhros had chosen his moment when Mother was in the kitchen, since it had seemed safest to have the conversation underway before she returned.

Athair raised one eyebrow, as was his wont, and set his fork down with a bite of pork loin still pronged. “I have made anything you can imagine at least once, son. I have made sabers. There was talk of an Irish militia…but never mind that, for now. Why your sudden interest?”

Maedhros flushed under Athair’s interest, nervous but pleased. “Well, I’ve really taken to fencing, at school, you know. I thought if we could have a few foils here—if it wasn’t too burdensome—I could stay in practice, and show…show some of my brothers a little.”

“Does not Maglor already fence?”

“It often conflicts with his musical instruction,” Maedhros said quickly, catching Maglor’s frantic eye. “But Celegorm, I am sure, would love to learn.”

Celegorm nodded enthusiastically, remembering just in time not to thump his fists on the table for emphasis.

“ _I_ want to learn _too_ ,” Curufin whined. Curufin was the only one whom Athair did not punish for whining, or for interrupting at the table. Liberties were accordingly taken.

Athair finished his meat. Then he said, almost casually, but with a gleam of creation in his eye:

“I have a better idea.”

Alexander was an endlessly patient horse, even though he was only seven years old, but he didn’t care for Athair. His eyes widened and he snuffled a bit while Athair led him in a slow, demonstrative circle.

“I have recently read a report by the instructor of riding at the Military Academy,” Athair said. “ _He_ believes that good horsemanship requires saber training. You asked for fencing foils, eldest, but I think blades for active combat will give your schoolmates a greater test, come autumn.”

“Absolutely not,” said Mother.

“Nerdanel, hear me out!”  
  


“Maglor and Celegorm _only_ ,” said Mother.

“What about Curufin?” Athair was pleased with himself, having successfully pressed his luck this far. Maedhros himself was a little uneasy; fighting on horseback—even with H.R. Hershberger’s deceptively simple regimen of seven cuts, two thrusts and three parries—seemed risky.

“Curufin is _eight years old_.”

In the end, it was agreed that Caranthir on down could only watch from a safe distance. Under Athair’s tutelage, drills were conducted for two weeks. Then Maglor was thrown, and hurt his shoulder, which threw the entire family into a rare panic and Mother into a heated fury.

“Mags will be well soon,” Celegorm said. At eleven, he had a particular fondness for irreverent names.

“I know,” Maedhros said. He had been chewing his lips, not looking like he knew.

“I’ve hidden two fire pokers in the barn,” Celegorm said hopefully. “If you…”

“What?”

“We don’t have to be like Hersh-a-bersh.”

“Hershberger?” But Maedhros smiled.

“Whatever his name may be. We don’t have to do it on horses.”

“Ah.” Maedhros folded his arms and pinched his eyebrows together in careful thought. “Very well,” he said at last. “But it will have to be just us two, Celegorm.”

Celegorm grinned. He did not say what he what he was thinking, but _I like that better_ was written in every line of his face.

The barn-loft fencing club was kept carefully secret, and, even more amazingly, resulted in no injuries other than a few bruises and a gash on Celegorm’s shin.

The memory of beam gymnastics and clashing iron lasted longer than the scar.


	3. The Dares Club

The dares began early. Maedhros was eleven, Finrod ten, Maglor _wanting_ to be ten, and Fingon a shy lad of seven, and all of them were eager to prove themselves to _someone_.

Who could run silently down the front hall while the grown-ups drank their aperitifs? Who could balance a saucer on their forehead? _That_ one ended in trouble. And then years separated them, of course, until Maedhros and Maglor began their studies in the city.

They were all cooped up together, of a Sunday afternoon, when both the families of Fingolfin and Finarfin had come to visit after church. Maedhros started it up again.

“Finrod,” he said. “I dare you to fit five walnuts in your mouth.”

“Unshelled?”

“No, shelled. That way you can’t choke on them; they’re too large.”

“If I die, tell my father how it happened,” said Finrod, but he was always up for a challenge, and filched five walnuts from the decorative bowl that Indis had left for them to share among themselves.

“Done!” Finrod cried triumphantly, the misused nuts rolling on the carpet.

Maglor sniffed. “Now they’re ruined,” he said. “Who’d want to eat them, after they’d been in your mouth?”

“You can’t fit five in _yours_ , is all I hear you saying.”

“I dare you to drink from the kitchen brandy.”

“I dare you to wear a hair-ribbon to church.”

“I dare you to lace yourself into one of Grandmother’s corsets.”

Fingon gasped. “Finrod!”

Finrod shrugged. “Maedhros has been boasting of his narrow waist.”

“Have I?” Maedhros demanded, all innocence.

“Considering your current state of tailoring and your poses at the street-front window this last half-hour, yes.”

Maedhros laughed, a joyful scoff. “I’ll take you up on it. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tie me into it. The lady has to hold onto the bedpost, you know, and breathe _in_.” He heaved dramatically. “At least that’s how the cartoons show it.”

“Cartoons?” Fingon ventured, still concerned.

“Never you mind the cartoons, _cano_.”

Had there ever _been_ a stealthier ascent?

Finwe and Indis shared a massive bedroom—and a massive bed, though their grandsons tried not to think overmuch of that—at the top of the stairs. There was a wardrobe, a locked desk, two armchairs…

“We really shouldn’t be here,” Fingon whispered.

Maglor nodded tightly. “Maitimo…”

“Shhh, we’ve done worse,” said Maedhros, which wasn’t strictly true—unless one considered the kitchen brandy, which was what they called the medicinal stuff kept for weak hearts. “Right, Finrod. She’s your grandmother. You poke about in her…”

“ _Maitimo_!” said Maglor and Fingon together.

Maedhros blushed, then. Finrod didn’t.

“Grandmother wouldn’t care,” he said. “And none of our fathers beat us, do they? So we can’t get in a _real_ scrape. We’re all too old.”

Maedhros was the oldest, and he was seventeen.

“You’re going to fit it over your chemise?”

“I think I must, Finrod. I’ve room to spare, if your incisive calculations are accurate.”

“If he takes his shirt off, I shall disown you _both_ ,” Maglor snapped.

Fingon wrung his hands. “I’m sure I hear _someone_ coming.”

“Hold onto the bedpost, dear,” said Finrod, grinning, and Madhros did, and shut his eyes with a very manly expression of endurance (considering the circumstances).

“You look like a pirate,” Fingon said.

Maedhros poked curiously at the whalebones. “Lord, it pinches awfully. No wonder the women are always sighing in such a strange, choked way when I speak to them.”

Maglor and Finrod exchanged a glance, restoring their typical alliance.

Finrod said, “I’m sure that’s why.”

“Boys,” said Grandfather Finwe from the doorway, “What in the _world_?”


	4. Knights Templar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More swordplay.

The Knights Templar puzzled Caranthir. He had been impressed by their Holy Mission (though Athair said, like all French ideas, their conception had been an ultimate failure) and by their white and red mantles.

He liked less that they had killed people. Ever since he had learned of the Crusades, Caranthir had had many scruples over the prospect of a _just war_. It also troubled him that Templars had a rule—handed down, as most of their rules were, by _Bernard de Clairvaux_ —never to touch women.

“ _You_ want to touch women?” Celegorm asked, with overpowering scorn.

Caranthir could feel himself turning red. He’d always blushed in anger, when he was small, but now a more troublesome development had come with the age of reason and youth: embarrassment.

“I like to give Mother a kiss sometimes,” he said, jutting out his chin.

“It’s a dead order of Knights,” Celegorm said. “And no one would make you a knight, anyway. You can’t even chop wood straight.”

They stared at each other in rising anger, but they did not fight.

Athair was nearby, and in a fickle mood.

Caranthir asked Mother if he might have one of her old paint smocks. She agreed with a fond smile. Just as Athair gave things to Curufin, that he didn’t truly deserve, Mother saved little scraps of her work for her fellow-piemaker.

Caranthir knew he wasn’t her favorite, of course—didn’t want to be her favorite.

He wanted, as all his brothers wanted, for Maitimo to come home and resume his rightful place.

The cross came out uneven. No one else was going to see it, but it still grieved him a little. He kept the smock bundled under his coat until he was beyond the field and hidden in the pine stand. The needles, sweet-scented, were soft beneath his feet.

Caranthir pulled the smock—the tunic—over his head. This done, he selected a sturdy stick with a prong near one end that looked like half a cross-guard, and swung it solemnly to and fro while he walked.

He prayed aloud,

_Jesus, the very thought of Thee with sweetness fills the breast! Yet sweeter far Thy face to see and in Thy presence rest._

_No voice can sing, no heart can frame, nor can the memory find, a sweeter sound than Jesus’ name, The Savior of mankind._

“What’re you doing?”

The Ambarussa sprang up, their hair redder than the pine needles. They had a horrid habit of hiding in the thickets that made a border between the stand and the field. Caranthir had been startled by them before.

“I was praying,” he said. Prayer was unimpeachable; even Curufin couldn’t have mocked _that_.

“With a sword?” Amrod asked.

The twins were eight years old. Caranthir considered.

“Sometimes people who have swords pray,” he said. “Haven’t you paid any attention when Mamaí teaches history?”

“History is as boring as arithmetic,” Amras said, sighing. “‘Cept when she draws the maps. You’ve a cross on you, Caranthir.”

“It’s those monk-knights again,” Amrod said. “The one he read about in the book Grandfather gave him. The Templarts.”

“Temp _lars_.” But Caranthir cast his eye about for more sticks. “Yes, I’m a knight, but I could use a squire and page.”

Competition was as tempting to the twins as to any other Feanorian.

“I’ll be the squire!” “I’ll be the squire!”

“You may _both_ be squires, newly elevated from the rank of page,” Caranthir conceded grandly. He was flushing again, but it was a happy flush. “Ho there, pick up those swords! Don’t leave them lying about. It’s poor form.”


	5. The Dickensian Society

Had they really arrived at the twentieth chapter? It was difficult to believe, for there were always studies to be attended to, Maglor’s music lessons to be accounted for, and the general restraints placed on four boys not yet fully grown to manhood.

Still, Maedhros prevailed. He liked to read aloud, and exerted his powers of elocution and dramatics to such a dazzling extent that three months’ worth of cousinly gatherings were held in whatever room had the best lamplight.

Indis smiled on them from afar.

Dickens was their man; his serials were almost as thrilling as front-line reports from some (gladly) distant war, and the boys devoured them accordingly.

They also devoured a good deal of cake and almonds. Almonds were Fingon’s favorite.

In his clear voice, Maedhros read,

_He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use._

“Fagin is such a wretch!” Maglor said, engrossed.

“Shh,” chided Finrod.

Maedhros smiled with half his pretty mouth and went on:

_Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony._

Now it was Fingon’s turn to shudder. “It—I would—” he said, breathlessly. “If it were me, who had committed such a dreadful crime, I just _know_ …”

“ _Cano_ ,” said Maedhros, with his eyebrow lifted in his father’s expression, but his eyes far softer than Feanor’s ever were, “It wouldn’t be you.”

_Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmurs, by the spirits of the dead._

“That’s you reading about floggings,” Maglor said, as if he had been comforted by the description of flesh creeping. Perhaps it was the poet in him. The grotesque did not disturb him so much as did sneaking, base instincts of ordinary men. “Truly, Maedhros can’t bear—”

Finrod threw an almond at him. “Maglor, we’ve only half an hour before _your_ lesson. How are we to finish this?”

“Maglor is right,” Maedhros said soothingly. “I’m fortunate indeed, not to have been pressed into the navy…not to have been born into a country where impressment is the law. I’d have swabbed a deck wrong at once, and been soundly licked for it.”

“If we aren’t to know what happens to Oliver,” Finrod said airily, “I’m going to take a piss.”

Maedhros held up his hand.

_In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fearful and appalling._


	6. Teapot Tempests

“I didn’t know you were bringing company,” said Maglor. Each clink of spoon against cup had, Finrod thought, a faintly aggressive ring.

“Our parents are traveling to visit Grandfather Olwe,” Finrod said. “Angrod and Aegnor are with their tutors. Artanis was bored.”

“And now,” said the ungrateful girl, “I am even _more_ bored. Shove over, Maglor. You don’t need _all_ that cushion for yourself.”

Indignation etched itself over Maglor’s features. Finrod glanced warningly at his sister and offered her one of the tufted chairs that was tucked in a corner.

“There won’t be enough cakes,” said Maglor, in a pained tone.

“Are you planning on eating _seven_?”

“Artanis, hush.” Finrod was beginning to feel that this had been a very bad idea indeed, and he disliked the sensation of having made a mistake. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman serving a nearby table, “Another pot of English Breakfast?”

“ _Another_ pot?” Maglor was appalled. “This is _Darjeeling_.”

“I haven’t heard of that.”

“It has recently become popular in select areas of Britain,” Maglor said, lowering his voice as if he divulged a dark secret. “But this teahouse is the only one I know that serves it _here_.”

“Is that why you favor it?”

Artanis, uninvited, chimed in again. “You favor a teahouse, Maglor? Don’t you see that everyone else drinking, other than you two, is a woman?” She snorted to herself, in an ungenteel fashion that Mother likely sensed and censured from several hundred miles away. “Of course, sometimes I wonder if _you_ aren’t a woman.”

“Finrod, your sister is _uncommonly_ coarse.”

“You’re uncommonly _dainty_ ,” Artanis retorted. “Don’t you know it’s not _really_ good form to tilt your little finger like that?”

“Christ’s sakes,” Finrod swore. “The pair of you! Artanis, I told you that you could only come along if you behaved yourself, didn’t I?”

He was rarely angry. Artanis subsided.

But Maglor was still quivering with rage. “I invited you here as _my_ guest,” he said, sounding irritatingly like his father. “And this pot of Darjeeling is damned expensive, Finrod, don’t you know that? I told you it was _rare_.”

Maedhros’ patience had always impressed Finrod, but he had to marvel anew at it now, faced with Maglor in a true temper. He raised a hand, and said, pointedly looking his cousin full in the face,

“Maglor, I’m sorry.”

“ _Sorry_? Do you—”

“I didn’t think you would mind having a third here. I know she’s been rude, and I’m sorry for that as well. She likes tea, and I…you’re a connoisseur of it.”

He kicked Artanis under the table, so that she might not laugh.

“Thank you for your generous gift,” he finished. “I shan’t forget it.”

Maglor settled, looking a touch less like a ruffled hen.

“Finrod was so good as to call me a connoisseur,” Maglor opined gaily, tilting the pot with a practiced hand. “This is _gunpowder green_ —because you see how the leaves unfurl upon the touch of hot water. It is imported directly from China.”

“Isn’t most tea?” Fingon asked doubtfully.

“Of course, the _British_ lay claim on so many things,” Maglor said, scoffing gently. “Half of the stock in this place passed through there at some point…but tea does hale from China, historically. It has only again risen to prominence in recent years, after the…unpleasantness your people caused.”

Finrod’s patience, already thin, wore thinner. “ _Our_ people?’

“Egads, Macalaure,” Maedhros said, reaching for one of the delicate bone-white cups. “Don’t take us to the harbor today. I’m too full of cake, at the moment, for an expedition…or a war.”


	7. The Yachting Club

“So what I was thinking,” Finrod said, ruffling his golden thatch of hair with both hands, “Is that we four should go boating.”

“In April?”

“You sound like Uncle Fingolfin!”

“Surely not,” Maedhros mumbled. “I only mean, it is April, and may be cold on the water.”

The river was green in its depths, gold in its ripples, blue in its great beyond. That was the Hudson, broad and proud. Near Formenos, it was noble but untamed—like a forest deer, if you caught one grazing unawares. When it gilded Manhattan’s shore, it roared to its full strength.

Maglor thought all this, with his scarf wrapped so firmly around his mouth and nose that he could not smell the fish and rot that lined the river’s gullet.

They were not particularly skilled at boating. They had paid for a day’s usage of a small craft with a beautiful white canvas sail. The sail had nearly struck Fingon off into the water when the boom swung round.

“I don’t know whether I’m tacking or jibing,” Maedhros said, very apologetically. “Fingon, do be careful. We can’t have you drowned.”

“I can swim!”

“Not if you’re knocked on the head,” Finrod pointed out. “Everyone stay sharp, that’s all! The wind’s up! Ho, ho! We’re going!”

They survived. Maglor did not take ill.

That was the best that could be said of the expedition.

The expedition to the seaside, more than a full year later, was not acknowledged as a secret one. Grandfather Finwe paid for their carriage as an early birthday present to Maglor—the only one with a birthday left in the year—and told them to enjoy themselves. Finrod had toyed with the idea of inviting a few of his friends—particularly, Esther Landau, whose mutual connection with Maedhros seemed to increase in interest and lustre by the day. In the end, however, he had decided that the risk was too great. Maedhros, usually the adventurer, seemed nervous about going to the seaside as a set of four.

 _Four cousins_ , Finrod realized. _Displaying our friendship for the world to see._

No, it wouldn’t do to make Maedhros _more_ nervous.

They would spend a night at one of the new hotels at Coney Island, and journey back by ferry in the morning.

“It will do you boys some good,” Grandfather Finwe said.

Finrod wondered if Grandfather, too, was troubled by the approaching fete at Formenos. Perhaps he thought it would to do some good, to indulge the latest generation in hopes of an alliance.

They frolicked in the water. Bathing costumes were troublesome affairs, and Finrod had more than one idea of returning at night when they could do so with less…inhibitions.

Maedhros and Maglor, however, were not floundering in dripping wool.

“What are those made of?”

“Cotton flannel,” Maedhros said. “Pounds lighter. Mother made them.”

“Goodness,” said Fingon. “I am envious. This really takes half the fun out of swimming.”

“When you all come up next week, we can swim in the pond,” Maedhros pointed out. “If September stays fair.”

When Finrod and Fingon were as utterly bedraggled as two wet wolfhounds (Huan came to mind), Maedhros proposed that they rent two of the bright-painted dinghies that were displayed invitingly behind them.

  
Half an hour later, they were bobbing on the waves: merrily at first—

“Does it count as sailing,” Finrod queried, “If the water is _inside_ the boat?”

And that was all he had time to say, for the craft gave way entirely, and Maedhros had to use the rest of Grandfather’s money to make it right on shore.


	8. Fraternity, Sorority

Aredhel said, with an impatient stamp of her foot, “If you had a sister, you wouldn’t have such trouble.”

They had slipped away from the dining room (where their parents sat, hating each other), away from the sitting room (where their brothers were quarreling over a puzzle, or, in the case of Maedhros and Fingon, making a map of a fantastical moon-world together), and when they were safely tucked up in their chosen empty stable-stall, Aredhel had handed over a nickel and delivered instructions as to where to buy an apple turnover.

She remained behind to keep watch. Celegorm returned with a black eye.

“The other feller looks worse!”

“Don’t butcher your vowels,” Aredhel said severely. “Not at a moment like this!”

“The other _fellow_ ,” said Celegorm, sneering, “Looks worse than I do. And I saved your nickel.”

“I didn’t _want_ you to save it! I wanted you to spend it, while I kept watch! And now what are we to do? Everyone will see—”

She didn’t say it, but what she was thinking was: _Uncle Feanor will see, and blame Papa, and that isn’t fair! It isn’t fair at all!_

“Oh, Ris,” Celegorm sighed, sinking down on the horse-blanket beside her. “It’s naught but a bruise. I’ve had worse.”

“But you didn’t have a bruise on your eye half-an-hour ago! No one will be satisfied with some fool explanation.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“What does that have to do with _what_?”

“With having a sister.” Celegorm poked with a grimy thumb at his swollen cheek. Aredhel batted his hand away. “What good would it do me?”

“Well, my brothers keep very neat and orderly, generally.”

“That’s because they’re silly prigs.”

Aredhel said, “Well, _sometimes_ ,” and then felt rather guilty. “They’re not so bad,” she said. “Not all of the time.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Celegorm, sounding like he wouldn’t take anyone’s word for it, living or dead. “Well, I dunno—I _don’t know_ —whether it’ll solve it, but we’ll tell Grandfather I bashed myself on the newel post. If he believes us, we’ve a better shot at striking gold ‘n innocence.”

Aredhel nodded, after considering the plan. “That newel post is frightful pointy.”

“It is.” Celegorm leaned back against the planks of the stall gate. “And there’s another thing. A solution, if you like.”

“What?”

“Will you be my sister?”

“I have another brother,” Aredhel announced, when Turgon was being particularly vexatious. Sometimes he _was_.

Turgon looked superior and too tall. He’d grown a few inches in the past summer months. “Brothers don’t crop up like weeds in a garden,” he said. “What _are_ you going on about, Aredhel?”

“Celegorm.” She watched closely to see the effect the name had on him, and was satisfied when Turgon flushed with annoyance.

He did his best to hide his pique by lifting a newspaper to his face, in a poor imitation of Father. “Don’t talk nonsense, Irissse. The Feanorians will _never_ be more than cousins.”

“Seeing as _I’m_ the sister,” Aredhel retorted—Turgon was _not_ permitted to call her Irisse—“I think I’ll decide for myself. Hell, I might take Curufin too!”

Turgon shot straight up out of his chair. “Mother! Mama! Aredhel _swore_!”

“Oh, aren’t you the great big _man_!”

“I’ve adopted Celegorm and Curufin for brothers,” Aredhel explained.

“Hm,” said Fingon. His head didn’t lift from his diagram of the nervous system. That was how she knew he wasn’t listening.

Of course, he couldn’t have chided her even if he had been.

He was as good as brothers with Maedhros, after all.


	9. The Finns

“We could _both_ be him, you know.”

Finrod looked up, startled. They were alone in the room; rain streaked the windows and the candles glowed fiercely, as if to remind the library’s occupants that they could do as well as newfangled lamps, given the chance.

Fingon must have seen his confusion, for he tapped his page. “Finn McCool.” 

It was an Irish name. An Irish name for an Irish legend—Fingon was reading from the heavy tome that Grandfather Finwe had (allegedly) brought with him on the boat.

It had been two days since Maglor and, more importantly, Maedhros had ridden north for Formenos.

“I take it he’s important.”

“Oh, very. Listen to this! It’s written in English, thank goodness…” And Fingon scrunched up his brow, looking exactly like his father did when _he_ read. “ _Finn_ means white, bright, lustrous, blessed…also fair and handsome.” He grinned shyly.

Finrod wished Maedhros was there to shine out with love for him. Finrod loved Fingon deeply, but he knew that that did not matter as much.

“Tell me something he did. They’re always…doing something, those Irish heroes.”

Finrod planned to do something with _his_ life, of course, but it wouldn’t suit the pages of a book. He wouldn’t _live_ to be remembered. That would not be, in his mind, the same as having freedom and principle.

Freedom and principle were hard enough to balance as it was.

“My favorite story about him is one from when he was, they say, only ten years old. _He slew the fire-breather_ Áillen _, who came to destroy Tara year after year, at the dark festival of Samhain. Twenty-three years_ Áillen _had wreaked his terror, but Finn had the Birga!_ ”

“The _birga_?”

“It was a special spear. Áillen played music, you see…a sort of fell song, that made all the people of Tara fall into deep and treacherous sleep. Finn took the _birga_ and touched the steel to _Áillen_. Tara was saved.”

Finrod, who had been (secretly) opposed to the prospect of any Gaelic charms but a moment before, found himself reflecting rather favorably on the tale Fingon had told. “There’s something so… _sordid_ ,” he said, “About a song that could hurt.”

“Carry a spear,” Fingon said, very solemn but for the twinkle in his eye. “In case street-merchants whistle too loudly.”

“I wouldn’t hurt anyone who had to work on the street to make their living.”

Fingon nodded hastily. “Oh, I wouldn’t either.”

“But,” Finrod conceded, knowing he had troubled Fingon’s conscience by his half-jest, “If they were a fire-demon in disguise…nothing for it, eh?”

“Nothing for it, Finn.”

“The Finns,” Maedhros said, with profound satisfaction. It would have been smugness in anyone else, but Maedhros had dimples that belied such an accusation. “I like it, Finrod. Cross my heart.”

Finrod sighed. “Fingon told you.”

“Oh, Fingon tells me everything, _mac Cumhaill_.”

“How did he die?” Finrod asked, leaning in as Fingon turned the gold-tipped pages. “These Irish lads always die in the end.”

“That’s the thing.” Fingon laughed a little. “He didn’t! He’s the savior of Tara, you know. The capital of Ireland. The myths were kinder to him than most. He isn’t dead at all, but sleeping. Hidden in a cave, coming back to Ireland when they need him most.”

“Don’t let Grandmother Indis hear,” Finrod said. “We’re English in equal measure. And you’re half French!”

“I like them anyway,” Fingon said, closing the book. “I can’t explain it, but there’s something beautiful about tragedy and magic combined.”

Finrod thought, _white light_ , and saw it shining out of his cousin’s face.


	10. The Gentleman's Club

Maitimo had but one rule for their attendance at the Parker Club—they had to wear their best.

“It’s not because I think you dress shabbily,” he assured them, “It is only that we look young…and admittance is easier if we’ve too much finery for them to say _boo_.”

“ _You_ can say Fingon,” Maglor rejoined airily, “Since he is the only one who looks like a child.”

Fingon thought of connecting his fist with Maglor’s eye socket, but it wouldn’t do to complicate Maitimo’s day.

Then too, when Maglor forgot (on rare occasion) that he was supposed to be important, he could be good fun. Fingon had hoped, now that Maitimo was twenty and the rest of them not far behind, that the petty battle-lines of youth would fade.

Maglor, with typical Feanorian insistence, ensured it was not so.

In the year and some since he had finished schooling, Maedhros had gained entry into a variety of elite venues, where dice and drink were exchanged in a haze of cigar smoke. Fingon was a bit uncomfortable among dark-paneled wood and worn velvet. He felt, somehow, that his father would not approve of such places. But Maedhros had insisted that keeping company with dandies, cardplayers, and even _rakes_ was a rite of passage for young men. It taught them strategy and wit, the contrasts of dignity and vice, if one played the right games and practiced the right courtesies—

“But you don’t have to do much about any of _that_ , Fingon. Most of all, these clubs are just a comfortable place to sit and have a pleasant chat in. With a tumbler of something…stronger than tea.”

Fingon had the humblest allowance of his cousins. He couldn’t _quite_ resent it—he had told his father many a time that his profession was immoral and his wealth a scandal. It wouldn’t be fair to lay claim to his own unearned portion.

 _I’ve given him a hard time, these years_ , he reflected, as he dressed in his plain Sunday clothes. _And I have sworn a doctor doesn’t need finery. I needn’t be a peacock—not even for my cousins._

To further their aim of societal elevation, Maedhros had proposed that they frequent a particular club, where they could open a tab and choose a regular table.

Though it still had some air of the _forbidden_ , Fingon found himself looking forward to evenings tucked in a corner bench, a mug of warm spiced cider in hand.

Maedhros had opened the tab, of course.

On this particular evening, Fingon was even feeling lucky at cards—but maybe that was because Finrod was playing much worse than usual.

Maedhros was winning; but Maedhros was always winning. If he let them off too easily, they all felt it and were ashamed.

Finrod threw down his hand impatiently. “All right,” he said. “I can’t keep silent any longer.”

His cheeks were flushed. He was usually even-tempered and even-colored.

“What is it?” Maglor asked, nibbling at a biscuit.

Finrod laced and unlaced his fingers. He hadn’t worn his neatest costume tonight. He didn’t seem to have taken much care in his dress at all.

“I’ve decided,” Finrod said, “That I can’t be satisfied by New York any longer. I _can’t_ become a banker—or a clerk—or anything of the sort. At least, not until I know myself.”

Fingon swallowed more cider. He was going to get drunk, draining it like this, but he found he couldn’t face his cousins full on.

Still, it was Maedhros who spoke.

“Where,” he asked, paler than Finrod was, “Will you go?”


End file.
